


Lightning Fields

by insistentbass



Series: Your Mouth To My Heart [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking to Cope, Feelings Realization, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sussex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insistentbass/pseuds/insistentbass
Summary: 'John can feel it in the back of his throat and teeth, the saltwater cutting at his gums. He knows where the waves lead. The untouched island at the edge of everything, wild and waiting.'John and Sherlock attend a wedding. Things happen.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Your Mouth To My Heart [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001055
Comments: 30
Kudos: 143





	Lightning Fields

**Author's Note:**

> I'm definitely going to get sued for stealing song titles as my own. I'm just really awful at titles, sorry guys.
> 
> This can be read as a standalone, but there are references to 'Shame On Me', which is written from inside Sherlock's head, instead of John's. All you really need to know is they're both hurting and healing, and hate themselves a little. But it's getting better!
> 
> What started out as pure angst became slightly comforting, so please press on through the nightmare of John's mind to the end if you can. I have a tendency to over embellish everything and forget about plot, so fair warning to you.
> 
> As always, I don't get anyone else to read these before posting, so mistakes are all shamefully mine. I've written more in the last 2 weeks than I have for 6 years. This is also the longest piece I've ever written. My lockdown beaten heart really needed this therapy. There may be more to come, who knows.
> 
> Thank you & goodnight <3
> 
> B x

_You were waiting for the lightning to come  
And I didn't want to wake up  
I just wanted to run my fastest  
And stand beside you_

_Lightning Fields - The Killers_

//

Rain battering the windows wakes John. There can’t have been that many hours since his eyes closed. Squinting in the early morning light, he checks the watch still strapped to his wrist. It is in fact time to get up, despite his body feeling the ache of only four hours sleep.

The mornings are always the same, and it’s really only the promise of seeing his daughter’s sweet face, bright and awake in spite of the hour, that makes his limbs move. They have breakfast, which in reality means Rosie making tiny hills out of her porridge before she shoves it into her face, and John downing two cups of tea in quick succession.

They then battle for what seems like an eternal thirty minutes, before John stands back to admire his work. Rosie wears tiny petal pink ballerina shoes, a white tutu and an oversized bear t-shirt. The bear clearly has an excellent quality of life, sporting ray-ban looking shades, a smart tie and what can only be described as a shit-eating grin. John on the other hand, hasn’t eaten anything since midday yesterday, hasn’t shaved or showered, and has about eleven minutes to accomplish all of this before the car arrives.

“Well, Daddy tried” He sighs, taking in the sight of his mismatched, giggling, perfect daughter.

Rosie nods as if she understands the resignation and whisky-born tired on her father’s face and toddles off to the living room. He watches for a moment as she begins her daily rounds of half-talking to the toys, organising them by imaginary rank. Right up front sits the largest and most loved stuffed friend – a fluffy black Scottie dog, with glassy eyes and a tartan bow tie.

“Sher” Rosie announces, pats him on the head, and continues to assess the rest of them.

 _Sher_ , a gift given with the proudest and softest of smiles - _“This was mine, when I was as small as you” -_ a rare treasure from Sherlock’s childhood that wasn’t feathered and tarred by the sins of his family. The purest of things, placed into the tiny hands of John’s child, from the care of a man still trying to fix himself. Even in the perfect Christmas candlelight, he could see the darkened skin under the man’s eyes, the collarbones pushing through the thin of his shirt far too visible, the three or four lighter hairs creeping into his curls. Yet Sherlock had smiled, all the way to his eyes, as his gift was received and hugged as tightly as possible.

That was nearly a year ago. And just as Rosie had taken care of Sher, shining his nose and combing his hair, her infectious light had buffed out some of the cracks at Baker Street too. When John snapped, Rosie was there to remind him that his anger was misplaced and completely alien in her new joy filled world. When he faltered at the door, she would fidget and struggle to get out of his arms and over the threshold. When the cases were long, or boring, or both, she would sit between the two of them amid papers and coffee cups and just laugh, for hours. When Sherlock returned from Sherringford, tired, aching, and broken a bit more each time, Rosie and John would be waiting.

John closes his eyes for a moment and massages the bridge of his nose. Who even has a stag do right before the wedding anymore? What a bloody terrible idea. Made worse by the absence of Sherlock, who bailed with some excuse he doesn’t even remember any more. Although given the amount of alcohol still in his system, it may have been for the best. The taste of cheap beer still lingers in the back of his throat, and just as he thinks he may actually vomit now, his phone goes off.

_On the way – SH_

Shit. One final glance at Rosie, still questioning the true value of Larry the Lamb, and he hops into the shower. The steamy water drowns out the rain outside and the mild throbbing in his head.

He hopes the skies are kinder further south.

//

“Your right shoelace is undone”

 _Cheers for the help_ , John thinks, as Sherlock scoops up Rosie and puts her into the back seat. Thankfully she’s been persuaded into a lilac coloured dress at the last minute, so he doesn’t have to explain why his daughter looks like an odd circus performer. The rain has eased into dull winter bleakness. He takes a knee to fix the shoelace problem, and immediately regrets it. Since his trip down a well over two years ago, parts of John’s body just seem to stop working sometimes. It’s getting a little inconvenient, requiring a massage here or a few pills there, a mouthful of expletives and bourbon - or in this case, a strong arm.

“Need some assistance, Doctor” Not a question because Sherlock is already helping him up. Sadly this has happened enough times now that John doesn’t blush in embarrassment, just snorts and side eyes his human crutch.

“It’s the weather”

Sherlock smirks but the shadows of his eyes show concern as they flick up and down John’s malfunctioning body.

John reciprocates the inspection, and of course the man looks impeccable. Better than he has for months, actually. Slightly annoying, because he knows for a fact that Sherlock is still sleeping even less than he is – 3am texts, the sound of glass clinking from the kitchen when he and Rosie stay the night, the fact that even though his mind is as bright as ever, that tight grey thrum of pain is visible on his skin every now and again. Just there between his temple. No one else seems to notice it, not even Mycroft, who no longer sends unhelpful texts reminding John that he’s Sherlock’s carer. No, only he seems to notice the ache vibrating there on Sherlock’s pores. He’s felt it, in fact, beating against the skin between his shoulder blades.

Perhaps it’s the blue suit. Clearly more expensive than the entirety of John’s wardrobe, every centimetre of it tailored to his body. The overworn grey of his own jacket pales in comparison. Whatever it is, Sherlock looks lighter and John suddenly feels like he’s swallowed rocks. As on most days, he feels inadequate next to Sherlock Holmes. In every important way.

He brushes himself down, uselessly runs a hand through his hair, and joins Rosie on the other side of the car.

“I bought a token of congratulations on our behalf. I hope you don’t mind, I signed your name.” Sherlock informs him, gesturing with an envelope in his hand as he climbs in next to Rosie.

John hadn’t even thought about it in all honesty. The days seem like a blur with a toddler and a different case rolling in every week, not to mention sitting in a chair on his days off and talking about how difficult that lifestyle can be. He knows he’s been slipping on some things, but forgetting to even pick up a present for the happy couple really is disappointing. How much things have changed. Now he is the machine, running on autopilot and Chinese food, and Sherlock is the man buying wedding gifts and saving John from social suicide.

“No, that’s great, Sherlock. Thanks”

His hair definitely looks like crap. John runs his hand through it again in some desperate attempt to not look like he only got ready five minutes ago, unprepared for an event he’s known about for months. There’s something up with his tie as well, the knot is too tight somehow, _how can he forget how to tie a bloody tie_ , for fucks –

“Here, let me.”

Sherlock reaches over across Rosie, who ducks her head between his outstretched arms and pulls a tongue out at him. He returns the favour and smiles at her, while his hands work blind magic on John’s tie. The man’s like sodding Super Nanny, simultaneously entertaining John’s daughter and fixing the terrible job he’s done on his knot. The jacket waist feels slightly oversized since he last wore it too, which doesn’t help the overall appearance much. John just sits there, closes his eyes with a deep sigh and tries not to equate the feel of Sherlock’s hands at his throat with the blurry memory of pressing lips.

“There. You look fine, John.” He straightens out John’s collar, noticing the exasperation.

“Excellent. Fine is definitely what I was going for.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh and continues pulling faces at a completely delighted Rosie. John manages a half smile and prays to the sky above that this is the shortest wedding in the history of weddings.

//

_‘You are loved by both the groom and bride, so please sit on either side!’_

John digs Sherlock in the ribs just as he’s about to open his mouth.

“But John – the _sign._ ” He whispers, gesturing his hand at the display, the other clutched tightly in Rosie’s between them both.

Yeah it’s a little cheesy, and Sherlock has a personal vendetta against things that rhyme unnecessarily, but nonetheless. It’s a wedding.

“Weddings are a bit cringey, Sherlock. Just go with it.”

They continue to walk along the petal covered path leading towards the wedding barn, (“A wedding _barn_ , John”), and although a bit overdone with the twinkly lights, it really is very beautiful. Even the drive over had turned out to be pretty spectacular, forcing John’s eyes to stay open and awake for the entire two hours. Rolling hills dusted with the first hints of snow, the last wine-red leaves clinging to otherwise bare branches. Tiny cottages with thatched roofs and ornate wooden doors. It was all quite perfect. It reminds him how little they escape the city, how trapped his life has been for the last few years. It makes him want a holiday, which is a welcome feeling amid the daily mashup of exhaustion and survival mode.

It’s a small venue, and predictably Sherlock guides the three of them over to the side with the fewest family members. There mustn’t be more than fifty other people sitting on the wooden benches either side, a mix of family and friends, and a few staff members from Bart’s that John recognises but can’t quite place. He notices Sherlock nod at the groom, who is shuffling nervously from one foot to the other. John smiles and throws him an encouraging thumbs up, then takes his place next to Rosie, Sherlock on the other side.

Greg grins at them both, the blue heather in his corsage setting off the cool of his eyes. Any lingering hangover from the previous night has somehow miraculously been scrubbed away, replaced with a glow that can only shine from someone who is about to enjoy the best day of their life. He looks so happy, already. John aches a little.

Gentle string music feeds into the background, and he turns in his seat to quickly sweep the back wall, a force of habit. Waiters with trays of welcome prosecco, yet more twinkling golden lights, and – yeah, of course they’d be here. Donovan and a mystery bloke on her arm, closely followed by Anderson, looking very much like a lost sheep. There’s a part of him that feels sorry for the man, the slightly manic mess he became all that time ago when Sherlock was gone. Then he remembers the events before that, the cutting words and unwarranted accusations, accessories to a catastrophe that though unreal, still took years of John’s life away.

“Do yourself a favour and don’t turn around.” John says out of the corner of his mouth to Sherlock, whose hand is still captive in Rosie’s loving grasp.

“I already clocked the temperature drop.” Sherlock remarks, but doesn’t move.

“Yeah well, prepare yourself for Arctic.”

To credit Donovan, she does look particularly stunning. Her date clearly knows it too, because he’s got a tight arm around her waist as they approach the trio, looking simultaneously nervous and in awe. The green satin dress hangs like liquid over her frame, contrasting her deep red painted lips. Anderson looks like he’s trying to hide, which is probably for the best.

“Aw, look at the happy family” She sneers, and just as quickly as John had been mentally undressing her, he wants her to disappear.

“Hey little one,” She begins, crouching down a little to smile at Rosie – who, to John’s utter delight, completely ignores her. She straightens and regards them as if they were sitting on the other side of an interrogation table. “Are you dragging her around after Sherlock Holmes too, or does he not let you bring a third wheel?”

That anger again. Instant and hot, John curls his fits around the bench by his thighs and tries desperately to channel his daughter’s nonchalance. He glances at Sherlock, hoping there’s a cool and collected response incoming, but finds that spot between his temple is furrowed, lips curling in irritation. That struck a chord, then. Donovan seems to be the only one who still holds some kind of misplaced grudge against them, a hatred for Sherlock that only intensifies the more he proves his worth as a detective and a human, and a distaste for John by proxy. Poor Rosie is just cannon fodder.

“Well you would know all about third wheels” Ah, there he is. Sherlock flicks his eyes between Donovan’s company. “Which one is sleeping at the foot of the bed tonight?”

Another retort sits on the tip of the viper’s tongue, but thankfully the softly pleasant music fades out and is replaced by a louder more purposeful wedding march. Donovan and her doting entourage move to the next aisle, as everyone stands to welcome the bride.

Molly looks serene. Gone is the usual jitter of nerves that vibrates her entire being - this woman breathes confidence and grace and pure, unfiltered love. The dress is cut just right across her shoulders, all lace and beading, elegant next to the delicate flowers woven into her gathered hair. Practically angelic, she begins her walk up the aisle towards her future husband, who looks like he has won the lottery and become King of England all at once.

John knows he should be watching the procession, but he can’t stop his eyes drifting towards Sherlock. This then, is the reason for his brightness today. It’s not the suit, though it helps, it’s not the last autumnal sun bringing colour to his pale cheekbones – it’s Molly. The smile gracing her lips is echoed and intensified on Sherlock’s. It is perhaps the most genuine happiness he’s seen on the man’s face for years, those slate eyes warming and shining with the promise of a tear. John wonders what it would taste like on the edge of his tongue.

Bless his precious and sensitive daughter, who breaks her grip on Sherlock’s hand to hug his leg instead. She does what her father can’t do, and holds Sherlock until Molly finally reaches her destination, and everyone is seated again.

John wants to make eye contact with him, but Sherlock doesn’t look his way for the rest of the ceremony. There are vows and rings and declarations of love, but John can’t listen. Doesn’t allow himself to, because the last time he heard those words they were coming from his own mouth. The memory of it is too much, even now. If he squints, Molly’s face blurs into his dead wife’s, and with that imagined possession comes a whole host of things he simply cannot look at anymore. No doors would open to allow himself out of that pit of memories, so he keeps the locks shut tight. Tries, instead, to rehearse what he will say to Sherlock. How to ask him if he’s okay and tell him everything’s okay, without saying either of those things.

Before he knows it, people are cheering and clapping, and he’s getting confetti stuck in his unruly hair.

They sit through speeches and a meal at a table with people they don’t know. Mrs Hudson is seated tactically between Molly’s Aunt and Uncle, so the only other guests they actually recognise are either in Donovan’s band of merry men, or simply find the three of them too odd and awkward to approach for conversation. John doesn’t mind. He’s on his third glass of the table wine, trying to trick his brain into surviving with a combination of Rosie’s babbling and Sherlock’s running commentary as he lists the possible crimes Greg’s brother has committed. Some of which, to be honest, kind of make sense.

Just as Sherlock’s on his way to legitimately convincing the table that one of them is an adulterer, they are ushered out into yet another decorated barn. This one has a large shiny stone floor, ready for a bunch of people to awkwardly sway to the covers of their favourite songs. A hipster looking version of a string quartet sits off to one side, already playing a stripped down version of a song he’s heard on an some advert recently.

He can’t help but feel slightly out of place now. The first dance begins, and Sherlock slips away towards the end, likely for one of the cigarettes he thinks he’s secretly smoking. So he and Rosie are left standing alone, watching as people gradually join the celebrations.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go get a drink.” She’s a bit sleepy now, so John hooks her around his hip, her head lolling against his shoulder.

Hair of the dog really is an understatement, he realises. This must be his seventh or eighth drink, but really, why are weddings so long? There are at least another three hours left to stay awake for, how is it possible to make it through without a steady stream of alcohol in his system?

John knows he can reason it all he wants, but unfortunately he’s the narrator of his own brain and therefore knows when he’s lying to himself. He really is about to order water instead, and then catches sight of Sherlock coming back in from the dark outside. His nose and cheeks are tinged pink with the cold, and he’s ditched his tie and jacket somewhere in favour of an open collar. He ruffles his hair, searching for John, who catches his eye as the bartender turns to him.

“Yeah, two whiskies please. With ice.”

//

“Can I steal her for a dance?”

It’s Molly, slightly breathless from an hour of jumping around with her bridesmaids. Greg is equally flushed and has a hand on the small of her back, looking like the luckiest man in the world. They both approach the small table he and Sherlock have sequestered near the bar, eyes bright and beaming.

Rosie makes her own decision and instantly hops off John’s knee, waddling towards the bride with an enthusiasm she should be too tired to enjoy. He smiles as they both walk hand in hand to the dancefloor, receiving ‘awws’ from everyone they pass. Oh he’s so glad for that girl, and how wonderfully she’s growing despite the shortcomings of her father and the frankly odd world she’s been placed into. The two of them part the waves of the crowd and begin dancing together, the bride high on the joy of the day, Rosie just happy to be in the vicinity of her favourite friend. If the light catches it just right, Molly’s brown hair could be blonde. John realises his glass is empty.

“Thanks for coming, the three of you” Greg says, arms open.

Clearly he’s gesturing for a hug, so John stands and Sherlock follows, both enduring a wide armed, tight gripped and slightly drunken embrace. They talk about nothing in particular - the honeymoon, the relatives who don’t like Greg (particularly Grandma apparently) until eventually the call of the dancefloor drags him away again.

“Oh, thanks for the present as well! Brilliant!” He calls over his shoulder, already weaving through the crowd to his potentially criminal brother.

John smiles tightly and lifts his empty glass at him in acknowledgement, knowing full well he has no idea what the present was.

“A weekend away to Whitby” Sherlock confirms, draining the rest of his drink as they watch the other guests break off into a mix of chatting groups and middle-aged people forgetting how their limbs work.

“Why Whitby?” John’s either a terrible friend, or he’s missed something. Probably both.

“He’s a detective who only reads horror novels, and she’s a mortician with a fascination for the macabre.”

Sherlock says, as if that clears everything up. John’s silence explains that he does not in fact know what significance Whitby has to any of that, let alone that Greg reads horror novels. Sherlock sighs.

“Whitby inspired Bram Stoker’s _Dracula._ They can visit some tepid tourist attractions and take a selfie on the beach, I thought it would be… Enjoyable.” He finishes, a little defensively.

It’s like the stars all over again. Most of John’s memories are locked away tightly these days, but a few are allowed into existence, and most of those occur when it was just the two of them. Walking through the London streets at some forsaken hour, looking up at the tiny dots in the inky black - _beautiful, isn’t it?_ \- the hitch of his heart as the self-professed sociopath complimented something as insignificant to him as the stars. Another reminder of how terribly wrong John had been about his friend right from the beginning, how perhaps it was his own lack of humanity that he was seeing reflected, not Sherlock’s.

“That _is_ brilliant” John says, offering a small smile as Sherlock’s eyes seek approval. “I certainly couldn’t have done any better”

“No, you couldn’t” Sherlock grins, taking both their empty glasses and placing them on the table.

Yeah, he’s a little south of sober now. Things are comfortably fuzzy around the edges, he’s warm when it’s not really warm at all, and he can’t find Rosie in the blur of people anymore. John can tell Sherlock’s buzzed too, because he’s moving side to side ever so slightly, following the rhythm of the music John no longer recognises. He takes off his jacket purely for something to do, rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie as his gaze flits across the crowd.

“Can you waltz to this?”

Shit. That was out of his mouth before he even had chance to stamp on the thought of it. But Sherlock looks so relaxed and at ease in a social situation for once, so calm for the first time since he can remember, it’s distracting. The whisky is thrumming through him and it’s hard for John to keep track of which ideas are good, and which will end with him in heap on the floor.

“You want to dance” Sherlock’s scrunched up face looks disbelieving. “With me”

Well it’s too late now, isn’t it.

“Yes” John confirms through clenched teeth “Look, this is a one-time offer, so…”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow, turns to him with a look reserved only for when John does something particularly pleasing.

“Far be it from me to turn down John Watson”

John looks at him, shakes his head at his own idiocy, and follows him onto the edges of the dancefloor.

//

Curse his height, and his stupid shoes, and this absolutely awful idea. They are in fact waltzing to what John is sure is a string version of Coldplay, or at least attempting to. Somewhere between that last sip of booze and the half a dozen steps to the dancefloor, he’s lost his bottle and his co-ordination, and his damn bloody mind.

“I’ll lead, if you let me.” Sherlock says with mild irritation, the hand he has on John’s shoulder squeezing a bit too hard.

John’s reciprocal grasp is awkward and loose. He can’t quite keep his palm from slipping off the shine of that expensive shirt. Despite his best attempts, the flashbacks of learning to box step in the living room of 221B come crashing to the forefront of his mind, relentless waves washing away the count of his steps.

“Don’t I always” John accepts under his breath, nearly catching the toe of Sherlock’s shoe with his own again.

“Stop looking at your feet” Sherlock sounds as if he’s trying to be patient but is losing the battle spectacularly. He eases John’s shoulder into the correct direction, and inhales. “Look at me, instead.”

Before he even flicks his eyes up, John knows it’s a mistake. Great for his timing, because Sherlock is somehow communicating the passing of seconds in the set of his brows, but suicide for everything else he is desperately trying to keep together. Once he’s there though, he’s caught. Drowning in the wild blue, an insignificant sailor in a vast ocean. Getting lost in the sea spray of tangled emotions there.

“Better?” His partner asks, softly this time.

John can only make a noise in the back of his throat. Anything else would do little to diffuse the complicated bundle of feelings tingling through his fingers to his chest.

At least they are moving with ease now. Sherlock creates the space around them to dance perfectly, as if they belong there. His arms are strong and determined in their direction, guiding John exactly as he needs to be. It’s the same comforting anchor that has weighted their entire relationship, a solidity John has tried to convince himself he doesn’t need so many times. No matter how hard he denies it, he’s always drawn back in by the lure of something he has only had a taste of.

The rhythm John had somehow managed to conjure up those years ago miraculously reappears with every turn. The rest of the room is still there but it’s nothing but background white noise now. Most of his attention is taken by following the tempo set out for him by Sherlock’s body. Comfort ebbs from the familiarity of it, his course reset by the immovable man in front of him. It feels good, and as if sensing the calm that has finally fallen over them, the pace changes.

Now the strings are slower, the tone gentle and even melancholy. The crowd thins a little. Quite decidedly a love song. He feels Sherlock falter.

“Would you like to take a break?”

John wets his bottom lip. No, actually. No, he doesn’t want a break. Then the spell will be over, he’ll go get another drink or three from the bar and Sherlock will probably go to his room, and he’ll have to feign interest in the conversation of others while he tries to persuade his daughter to sleep. None of that seems appealing right now. Not in the arms of Sherlock, who is warm and steady and makes him forget everything else for a while.

“Not unless you want to” He replies, follows Sherlock’s gaze as it moves to fixate on something over his shoulder.

“We’ve got an audience”

There’s no need for him to turn. There have been eyes on the two of them for a while, Donovan likely embellishing their past to her captive listeners. John realises they are just standing there now, awkwardly together as much as they are apart. With a step he bridges some of the lingering space between them, suddenly losing any fucks he gives about judging eyes.

“Well, good.” John shrugs, raising his eyebrows.

It takes Sherlock off guard he thinks, because the man simply regards him for a moment. Probably figuring out what that one word could possibly be hiding, or perhaps simply taken aback by the momentary display of confidence. Either way the corner of his mouth twitches up, and the hand that had been grasping his own moves to rest at his bicep.

“Forget them, right?” John exhales, more to himself than Sherlock, who hums in agreement anyway.

Timing isn’t something he has to worry about anymore. They’re barely moving and the music is essentially useless, but it continues on around them regardless. Sherlock’s guiding grip on his shoulder loosens and then disappears altogether, tumbling down with piano fingers to John’s ribcage. Permission is unspoken for John to do the same, so he does. One of them isn’t breathing quite right, and he can’t tell if it’s his own lungs oscillating under the steady heat of Sherlock’s palm, or Sherlock’s pulse wavering beneath his finely pressed shirt.

They’ve shifted a little. John catches sight of the three witches staring at them. In fact, there are quite a few faces turned their way. For reasons unknown, it kicks at his temple like the beginning of a headache and he pointedly moves closer to Sherlock as they watch. Although, he realises, he can’t actually get that much closer. If they stood perfectly still, John would be able to feel the breath skirting across the top of his head, whispering over the grey of his hair in short exhales.

He finds both hands, now mirrored either side of Sherlock’s waist, are shaking slightly.

“You don’t have to prove anything, John.”

Sherlock almost sounds sad. And that’s not what this is about, but how can John explain that when he isn’t entirely sure why his thumb is attempting to count the ribs on one side of Sherlock’s torso, the other working holes into the fabric of his shirt to stop the tremors. Almost a year has passed since those moments in Baker Street’s kitchen that they’ve chosen to forget. What feels like an entire lifetime has evaporated since he closed the door on Sherlock’s open heart.

“I know that” He breathes, meeting the concerned eyes looking down at him.

Briefly John wonders how Rosie is, what time is it, are they really just stood here swaying to overly dramatic versions of pop songs – but as quickly as those thoughts appear they’re replaced by a warm chest against his forehead, somehow erasing the maelstrom of trivial things from his mind.

Christ, if they were anywhere else, he’d happily close his eyes and drift away.

But although alcohol still pushes through his veins, he isn’t that unaware. There’s a line he can’t cross, waiting for them to trip over it. It’s there right between the tiny pocket of air separating his mouth and Sherlock’s open collar. So instead he rests on that threshold, just breathing in the warm smell and cigarette smoke coming from exposed skin. John tries his best to hold that line bold and firm, until a hand moves to the small of his back, applying pressure to the dip in muscle just enough to make his breath catch.

Now he really does need to move. Everything feels slightly on fire, and soon his hands will wander of their own accord and set to undo the nucleus of wilful ignorance that surrounds them. Then Sherlock speaks into John’s hair, lips an accidental movement away from brushing the top of his ear.

“I believe the party is over”

And it is, just like that. Molly is making her way towards them, Rosie in her arms doing her upmost to hold in a gigantic yawn. John looks up to find Sherlock’s eyes dark, and he wants to say something but can’t quite figure out what it should be. It’s too late now, anyway.

“Sleep!” Oh, his daughter’s unique ability to break the tension. She announces this and holds her arms out for her father, opening and closing her fists in demand.

Greg looks apologetic at the interruption, the mild embarrassment of catching them in an intimate moment crossing his face. They break apart and John takes Rosie from Molly’s hip. Sherlock clears his throat and smooths out the wrinkles caused by John’s hands from his shirt. Another opportunity disappears to the sound of violin strings.

They all say their goodnights, thank each other for a wonderful time and some other filler that John doesn’t really hear. His brain doesn’t catch up until they’re in the lift on the way back to their room, Rosie already mostly asleep against his chest and Sherlock very purposefully studying his phone.

“Well, goodnight then.” He really doesn’t know what else to say. Sherlock considers him for a moment, then raises his chin to nod his agreement.

“Goodnight, John.” A brief kiss to the crown of Rosie’s head, and he’s walking away, rounding the corner of the corridor.

For a few moments John just stands there. His feet want to follow, but his saboteur brain and the sleeping girl on his shoulder persuade him otherwise.

//

The floodlight illuminating the barn is still on, despite the hour. It cuts through the gap in the blackout hotel curtains. John checks his watch. It’s nearly 2am. Gently he swills the ice around his glass, nothing but water this time, as he sits in an uncomfortable armchair and listens to Rosie sleeping.

Her soft breaths should calm him, they usually do. It could be the booze sitting in his stomach, but those small sounds aren’t soothing enough tonight. John just wants to talk to Sherlock. He doesn’t even really know what about. The dance, Donovan, the several different men Mrs Hudson had buying her drinks, how rubbish the hotel towels are, fucking _anything_ really.

He’s tried showering, reading his emails (of which there are few), even sat in the cramped bathroom and thought about Googling some porn. Nothing seems appealing enough. Now even watching over his own daughter isn’t keeping his attention. John wonders if this is how proper breakdowns start.

Perhaps it’s the last few months catching up with him. They’ve been skipping from case to case, there was barely a breather after Eurus and Rosie is growing up scarily quickly in front of his eyes. But that can’t be right, can it, because everything has been so easy lately. Sherlock drops her off at Molly’s and picks her up again when John’s fallen asleep in his chair, they co-ordinate better than they ever have, and Rosie is thriving in her unconventional home life. Sure, the cases are still intense, but Greg has seen them more times strolling through the park together than he has at Scotland Yard.

Is that it then? There’s not enough danger, not enough end of the world level threat to keep his mind occupied?

 _You really are fucked up,_ he thinks.

Something is just right there, and also drifting away in the endless sea. John can feel it in the back of his throat and teeth, the saltwater cutting at his gums. He knows where the waves lead. The untouched island at the edge of everything, wild and waiting.

For a few more minutes John watches his daughter’s body rise and fall beneath the sheets. She’s proper deep sleeping now, so he throws some jeans on, the first t-shirt he comes across in his suitcase, and closes the door behind him. From his pocket he digs out his phone, turns the sleep monitor app on just in case, and thumbs out a text.

_You awake?_

He’s not really expecting an answer, maybe he’ll just go down to the hotel bar for a while and pretend to drink some more water. But his phone vibrates before the lift even arrives. Not the only one struggling to find peace tonight, then. John reads it instantly, the need to be in Sherlock’s presence is overpowering.

_Of course._

_Come to the bar,_ would be the logical response. Meet on neutral ground so the jolting reality of other people talking around them can keep things light. Yet, that’s not really what he wants to do. Reality hasn’t served him well recently, much better to stay in the realm of uncertainty, where there’s at least a fifty percent chance he won’t hate himself in the morning.

Consciousness is skipping again, and he’s knocking on Sherlock’s hotel room door before he’s even reasoned it out fully in his head.

Sherlock is still in his suit trousers and shirt. The door is opened without a word and he steps aside to let John in. The curtains are thrown wide but the only real light comes from the glow of his laptop screen, sitting on a small desk at the foot of the bed. It’s a much better view from this side of the hotel. John can make out tiny houses in the distance across the sooty countryside.

He glances towards the laptop to see what Sherlock’s been working on, and notices three empty miniatures next to the keyboard, overpriced vodka. Slightly surprising, but better than cocaine, he supposes. That small bag is still in the bathroom under the dodgy floorboard. It’s oddly comforting to know they now share the same vice. At least he can relate to it. John raises a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock, who chooses to ignore it.

“Rosie?” The man asks instead, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Sleeping.” John confirms and moves to stand next to him in front of the large windows. They aren’t stood particularly close, but he can still smell sweat and tobacco and the faint tones of his own aftershave lingering on Sherlock’s shirt. Everything is oddly silent, save the muffled sounds of people stumbling back to their rooms outside in the corridor.

“I don’t know why I’m here, Sherlock.” John turns to him, hoping for something. Anything.

Another lie, of course. John still isn’t the good man he wants to be, so saying things and letting another person have the emotional advantage is more difficult than it should be. For once he wishes he could just be normal, that he wasn’t carrying the weight of betrayal and guilt and death, that he was the soldier he trained to be and not the empty vessel he is.

“In that case, you should leave.”

Sherlock’s voice isn’t angry but firm. The timbre of it hits John square in the gut as the man looks at him, face solemn. Sometimes the bad part of himself forgets that he can no longer treat Sherlock as if he’s an object and get away with it. The man has proven over and over that he is deeper, more feeling and more expansive than John could ever hope to be. It’s not fair of him, to assume that his own emotions can be dumped between them both like empty cartons of takeaway, spoiled debris for Sherlock to make better.

John meets his gaze and purses his lips. Maybe it is a good idea to just go. But none of his ideas have been helpful over the last forty-eight hours. He’s far too sober for this now.

“I can’t -”

That’s not really the word he meant to use, yet it’s right. What déjà vu. Something is physically stopping his body from turning and exiting the room. A heaviness in his legs that could be pure exhaustion, the drag of his limbs playing catch up to the working half of his brain. The intoxicating temptation, maybe, of rubbing out that unbroken line they have with the rough of his unshaved chin.

“Why?”

Sherlock asks, and John laughs under his breath, looks down and shakes his head. They both know why. Sherlock is no idiot, and the absurdity of pretending he can’t see it quaking over John’s skin is unbelievable. But he’s treated him so badly in their collective past - literally kicked the shit out of him and ripped his heart out publicly, left him standing in the kitchen in the dark alone - John can’t blame him for the pretence. It’s all fragile still. They are in this together, there’s no question or hesitation anymore, but the intensity of that means hurting each other is so, so much easier.

“Because I’m tired,” John starts, taken back by the strength of his own voice even if it’s sandpaper at the edges. “and I’ve had too much to drink.”

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly as if he’s about to tell him to leave again.

_That’s not good enough, John. That’s not the truth._

“Because I’ve tried to stop, Sherlock” He cuts off the incoming rejection, runs a hand over his face as if it will help remove the mask. “I tried to forget it.”

If Sherlock had just not worn the blue suit or said yes to a dance or kissed his daughter sweetly on the crown of her head, none of this would be happening. John would be comfortable in his low key misery still, he’d likely be sleeping next to Rosie with a foggy head but no worse off than he was the day before.

Those tidal blues are so open though, framed by the darkened valleys of Sherlock’s eye lids, cast in half shadow from the dull light. John can trace the moments leading up to this, how simple it could have been and how tragically complex it now seems. Things can’t be unspoken so easily, John knows because he’s still trying desperately to unpick the wrongs and misplaced blame he’s woven around them both.

But Sherlock waited. Sherlock _waited_ for him, has existed patiently in the wake of John’s storm, sorted through the splintered pieces, and given him the time to build something new. It’s not perfect, those scars are still there, patched up backwards in the bathroom mirror at 221B. It’s something, though.

John inhales, and wades into the beckoning tide with weights around his ankles.

“But all I can think about, is touching you.”

Sherlock’s quiet face breaks a little, air forces his lips to part as if he’s been holding his breath this entire time. Those last few words had barely been a whisper, but they seem shattering and loud in the night between them.

Suddenly John feels exposed and vulnerable. There’s wet on his cheek and he wonders vaguely if he’s crying or if the sensation is a ghost of the last time he was laid this bare. He looks down because whatever lies on the face before him, he’s certain it’s an image of pity and rejection that he can’t stand to have a memory of.

The silence is choking. John pinches the bridge of his nose and wills his feet to move. His ears are ringing so he doesn’t hear the gentle step taken towards him. Doesn’t know he’s losing space again until there are fingers lifting his chin. Sherlock smooths a thumb across his cheek, absorbing the tear into his own pores.

“So, touch me.”

John knows his sense of reality is falling away now. Everything becomes saturated and focused on the dark waters of Sherlock’s eyes, filled with an acceptance that he surely does not deserve. They should talk about this. It’s treacherous and reckless and everything John has been losing sleep over. But the chance is right here again, dressed in petrol blue and catching the sadness wetting his skin. This time he will not let it pass.

He can’t fucking breathe, at all, so he finds oxygen in Sherlock’s open mouth. For a second John just stills and lets it enter his lungs, shake through his veins like thunder. Then his greed takes over and he’s pushing his lips against Sherlock’s own so hard it almost hurts. The pain is rewarded as a moan trembles over his tongue and teeth.

Fingers find curls of dark hair and he holds on tight, needs something to fix him to this point in time in case he slips away again. Sherlock’s nails are digging crescent moons into the back of his neck, the other hand tugging at the hem of his t-shirt as if he needs permission. John doesn’t reciprocate the courtesy though, he’s already pulling at buttons while the adrenaline is potent enough to carry him through.

“John,” Lips break only enough to force out words, there is no need now to waste any space between them. “I don’t know what I’m doing”

It’s an admission of something that’s lain unacknowledged between them since Angelo’s. John finds himself oddly relieved. He’s not such a great person sometimes after all, and knowing he may be the first appeals to his wanton ego. The selfish monster in him wants to ask about Irene, but he stops himself. There is no room for jealousy here when Sherlock is giving himself so wholly. When he is confessing that he is foreign in this, with no clever plan or sharp wit to guide him.

“Neither do I,” John counters, though his fingers seem to be making quick work of the buttons in his way. He knows what he wants at least, of that his mouth and hands are sure. “Get on the bed.”

Sherlock shivers at that, John feels it skirt across the hairs on his arms. For a second he thinks he’s gone too far. And then Sherlock does as he is told, sits on the edge of the bed, looking up at him with trust and willingness.

“Christ, Sherlock.”

John hesitates. Sherlock looks needy and naked despite the shirt still hanging on his shoulders. He’s bright, in this moment. Like the constellations he’s fixed and vivid, strengthened by the pull of gravity between them. John doesn’t want to forget this. Momentarily the starved burning part of himself moves aside and he wants to take his time, count the seconds in the hitch of Sherlock’s breath and the hum of his pulse beneath his tongue. Never has he wanted to touch another man, not like this, but Sherlock – Sherlock somehow is different, not just body parts and sex, but a current of energy that forces John’s attention and makes his blood race. He’s in his bones and John just wants to be owned by him, finally sink into Sherlock’s heart and be the only one in it.

This time he allows each feature to sharpen and blur before he presses his lips to Sherlock’s. Barely any pressure at all, as he tries to absorb as many parts of him as possible. The sound of mouths moving together, the feel of Sherlock’s nose against his own, the heat so sweet he can taste it. Even the brush of cotton whispering between them makes his pulse skip, as they shift and Sherlock pulls him by the waist onto the bed and on top of him.

That feeling of inadequacy grips John again as he clumsily tugs Sherlock’s shirt off one handed. Co-ordination has left him and it’s all a bit messy. Sherlock’s thigh is in between his own and he can’t help twisting his hips towards it, lips dragging down his neck rough and wet. Hands pull at his own t-shirt still but Sherlock’s not at the right angle to take it off, so John sits back and does it for him.

They stop and look at each other. Sherlock lies on the bed beneath him, chest rising and falling in quick succession. John finds his own cacophony of emotions reflected in the lines and flush of the face looking up at him. It’s a tangle of years spent longing and fighting and tearing each other apart, loving one another from the safety of a friendship. Except now it’s not, anymore. It’s not a friendship or a partnership and they’ll probably have to figure that out once this is over. Right here, inside the four walls of a hotel room, after so much waiting, that all seems inconsequential.

John breaks the silence even though the answer to his question may be unbearable.

“You okay?”

Not completely selfish then. There’s still some of the old John left over that hasn’t been eaten away by rage. God he wants him, so much. But more than that, he needs to be wanted right back. There’s no world in which he takes this without knowing they’re in it together. That this isn’t the only moment he gets, there’s more and there’s an after. John wants to touch him at Baker Street in his armchair, wrap his arm around him in the back of a cab and kiss him on the streets of London, where everyone can see how singular and important Sherlock is to him.

“Yes” Sherlock breathes, and in the soft shadow he looks like he never has before. Unbound, at the mercy of something that isn’t under his control for once. “It’s always been yes.”

With that Sherlock anchors a hand around the back of John’s neck and arches up to meet his mouth again. That’s enough, and he groans against Sherlock’s kiss, words jolting his chest and making his eyes screw tight shut with the honesty of them. How did he ever hurt this man? If only each press of his fingers against Sherlock’s skin could erase the damage he’s inflicted, undo the heel of his shoe in his abdomen, the cut of his knuckles on cheekbones hollowed from weeks of cocaine.

Artificial light picks out the scars littering Sherlock’s torso. John recognises several and ignores one altogether, but there are some he has no knowledge of. They are years old, wrapping around the curve of his ribs from his back. Their eyes meet again and there’s so much packed into the look on Sherlock’s face that his breath catches in the back of his throat. It’s missing years mapped out and scarred forever, the secrets John still isn’t privy to are hidden in raised marred flesh. Perhaps he can never know their stories, can’t even begin to wonder right now because the corners of his eyes are starting to sting again. So instead he sets out on the path of absolution– dissolving the past with his lips and the pads of his fingers, hands seeking forgiveness as they move across planes of skin. 

John inhales sharply through his nose as the thumbs that have been skirting around a denim hem dip beneath it. Slowly he raises his hips and shifts enough for Sherlock to push down his jeans, simultaneously undoing his own suit trousers. Maybe he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s fucking efficient enough. John can smell the heat of him, and he buries his face in the curve of Sherlock’s neck as they move.

For a minute the only sound John can hear is his own struggling breath. Then their hands and hips find pace and Sherlock is cursing at the ceiling. Short, guttural expletives clawing their way out of the throat John is clenching his teeth against. The palm around him is sure and giving, warm in a way that makes him push into it. He’s trying to reciprocate but it’s too much, his head is swimming out into the unknown swell of the ocean, lungs filling with seaweed and sand.

“Look at me, remember”

Even in this, Sherlock is his compass. John counts each of the eyelashes struggling to stay open beneath him and rights himself, concentrates until he’s back in the game. And he knows he is because that spot between Sherlock’s temple knots, lips pressing tightly together between each breath. The noises coming from them are dragging John downwards, with each circulation of oxygen he comes closer to the edge.

Sharp pain shoots along his wrist and his knee is cramping, but fuck. Sherlock sounds desperate. John can’t feel the skin on his back where nails are digging in, they’re both trying to hold on and sink to the bottom all at once. Just as he shakes the ache from his leg, Sherlock takes his bottom lip between his teeth and shudders into him, repeating his name over and over.

How did he never ask for this before – muscles tighten and flex under his touch as Sherlock finishes, the dark around them not enough to conceal the sheen of sweat on his forehead. John lets his hand relax and pushes into Sherlock’s until he can’t hold out anymore. More curses leave his lips, dampened by the shoulder they are pressed against.

The relief is palpable. Sherlock’s mouth rests against the side of his neck, attempting to find control again.

Minutes pass before John dares to move. This is the part where Sherlock tells him he doesn’t do this, he’s changed his mind and there’s no space for complications. This is the back and forth he’s unconsciously rehearsed in his head during the small hours of the morning, where even in sleep he just isn’t good enough.

The body beneath him isn’t pushing him off though. Sherlock uses what he hopes isn’t his t-shirt to remove the mess between them, all the while with a hand woven gently into the short hairs on the back of John’s head. The sharp of Sherlock’s collarbone looks tender, pink from the pressure of his teeth, so John ghosts a kiss across it while he’s still allowed.

No version of this ends in them lying in bed together. In each half dream they fight or walk away or Mary is there with red staining her white blouse, telling them how disappointed she is. Not once does his head allow them to stay like this, touching and alone. No ghosts between them.

The moon must be out there somewhere, uncovered by snow heavy clouds. It throws cool light across Sherlock’s half naked body, catching taught tendons and the silvery damp evidence of John’s mouth. Sherlock pulls his suit trousers back up to hang on his hips, helping John to do the same because his limbs still won’t work properly. John feels arms moving him, shifting them both side by side, sharing the same bleach white hotel pillow.

It’s so intimate that John’s abdominal muscles tighten and he has to swallow a couple of times in order to breathe.

Before headstones and adulterous text messages, he could have believed this. Amid some other life this would fit, the pieces would slot together as if they’d never been broken in the first place. But in this version, those fragments are still embedded in the carpet at Baker Street and every time John tries to pick them up, fresh cuts appear on his hands and heart. He bleeds, and Sherlock watches with Rosie in his arms. They solve cases and laugh and share food, and just as John thinks he’s collected all the damage, he finds another shard, stuck there in the weave of threads. He can’t help but wonder if this will be the same, and waits for something to break the moment.

“Mrs Hudson will be delighted.”

Not quite what he was expecting, but Sherlock isn’t wrong. They look at each other, then break into a low laughter, equal parts relief and ridiculousness.

“She’s been holding out a long time for this one” He comments, still grinning because it’s the easiest thing to do when he’s half naked next to his best friend in bed.

“A very long time.” Sherlock agrees, smile settling into a soft look of contemplation.

“How long, exactly?”

The words are out before he can stop them, tripping across Sherlock’s furrowed features. John worries at his bottom lip, knowing he’s just hijacked the moment with his own selfish concerns. Like always, he needs Sherlock to spell it out for him, the clues that are right there and have been for years. He just needs to hear it.

“What?” Sherlock asks, though the sudden tension in his eyes reveals his understanding.

“How long, have you…” John darts his eyes around the room, hoping the correct words will jump out at him from the darkness. They don’t, so he just blinks, holding Sherlock’s gaze as he parts and closes his lips several times.

“Since you shot the cabbie.”

The answer is sure and loud between them. Not wholly unexpected, yet deep and raw in the pit of his stomach all the same. Of course it started there. If this were one of his stories, that’s the point at which John would throw in some saccharin line about great beginnings, and how from then on they always knew, it was just a matter of time. They’d touch here and there, accidentally stumble into each other’s arms, share a kiss in an alleyway after some great adventure. But this is no fairy tale, and things were never that simple.

“You should have said something -” John whispers, regretting the accusatory tone as soon as it leaves his mouth.

“Really?” Sherlock’s face is sharp suddenly, voice clipped. “And what would you have done, exactly?”

John can’t answer. _Look at us both_ , that honest voice cutting through everything John thought he knew about his own heart, revealing the hidden part of himself reserved only for Sherlock. It seems so long ago, he can’t even remember when exactly his feelings changed, or if they were always there anyway. Examining his own past is like watching someone else’s biopic. Equating it to the person he is now makes him feel like an imposter.

“Look, John.” Sherlock must sense the turmoil in the silence because his words are quieter, his brow settling. “It was too complicated back then-“

“And it isn’t now?” John interrupts, hoping his cocked eyebrow will melt some of the irritation he’s just stoked.

Sherlock’s mouth upturns, and he considers the ceiling for a moment, shrugs before answering.

“Well, hindsight.”

John offers a small smile, marvelling at their ability to tow the line between insult and sarcasm so easily now. Six months ago things would have been different. But it’s hard to stay in the realm of regrets when Sherlock is so close and warm, and they’ve finally, finally arrived at a place where they can do this. It’s taken so long to get here, does the journey even matter anymore?

All desire to talk has dissipated in the wake of that revelation. They are here, now, and John just wants to keep the moment. Proclaiming love doesn’t seem necessary, and it isn’t enough to encapsulate any of it anyway. Instead, John wraps a hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and kisses him. It’s gentle, the heat of blind need gone, replaced by something softer and accepting.

“Stay a little longer”

Sherlock’s voice is grit, and John realises they’ve been lying in silence for minutes now, just looking. They aren’t touching enough and that feels wrong, so he presses one palm to Sherlock’s sternum, the other resting on his waist. Sherlock exhales into him, his head finding space below John’s chin.

Somewhere between trying to form a reply and actually saying it, he’s closed his eyes. Perhaps if he catalogues all this information, concentrates on each fingerprint against skin, the small sounds of breathing, he’ll be able to keep it there in his mind forever, away from the stealing hands of his self-loathing.

Hours could have passed for all he knows, they seem irrelevant with Sherlock in his arms. But his daughter is entire corridors away, absolutely alone, and so John kicks himself awake. It takes real effort to move his face from where it’s buried in Sherlock’s hair.

“I need to go. Rosie –“

The sight of Sherlock sleeping erases his words. It takes a moment for his features to appear in the dullness, and when they do, he feels that honey warm spread across his chest. Comfort, he realises.

Every ounce of force he has left goes into slipping out of the bed and into his t-shirt. His hair is even more fucked than it was before but there’s no one still awake to see him, so he makes for the door while he still has the will to do so.

This time, he looks back.

“John -”

Sherlock is beautiful, in the blue moonlight. John smiles.

“I’ll come by in the morning”

With that, he slips out of the door and into the corridor. The warmth of Sherlock’s body already feels too far away. Rosie is still sleeping soundly when he returns, so John curls himself around her and closes his eyes.

//

They don’t see Molly and Greg in the morning, they’ve already left for their flight by the time breakfast is finished. John spends most of the early hours trying to keep his shit together, going through the routine of packing and re-packing their luggage, persuading Rosie into clothes despite her desire to stay in bed and watch cartoons. Sherlock is waiting at the desk downstairs by the time he emerges, the promise of knocking on his door completely broken.

“Sorry, I over-slept and someone didn’t want to leave” He raises his eyebrows at Rosie, who has already abandoned her father in favour of Sherlock’s hand.

Sleep seems to have evaded Sherlock after John’s departure. The pinch of slight delirium pales his skin, contrasting against the purple of his shirt. He looks tired but fine, hands shoved in his pockets.

“She’s not the only one” Sherlock concedes, catching John’s eyes as he lifts Rosie up for a proper hug. She throws her arms around his neck and instantly seems calmer.

John swallows the heat rising from his belly into his throat at that suggestive look, and opens the lobby door for them both. They pile into the Merc waiting for them, John packing the luggage into the boot. He takes a second, out there in the cold morning air, lets it fill his lungs one last time before it’s replaced by the stifle of the car.

They travel in the same arrangement as previously, Rosie falling asleep between them almost instantly, resting on Sherlock’s arm. The silence is noticeable but not entirely unwelcome. Things are okay, John reminds himself. Nothing has changed, except the few inches of space between them now feels like a chasm. Any second where he’s not touching Sherlock feels slightly dangerous, as if the more time they spend separated by elements, the more time reality will have to set in and steal it all away.

John opens and closes his fist, flexing each finger against the leather seat. Sherlock is on his phone and all at once the need to have connection is imperative. The daylight is bright and revealing, and maybe he just isn’t as desirable the morning after. Perhaps it was all a daydream. In the familiar setting of the backseat of a car, it could almost never have happened.

“Driver, pull over please.” Sherlock asks, still typing quickly on his phone.

“Sherlock?” John’s dragged out of his own thoughts as the car swerves into the next passing place on the single track road they’re driving down.

Rosie stirs a little but is trapped in the fog of sleep as Sherlock opens the passenger door. Gently he unbuckles her seatbelt, and she slides of her own accord into his seat. He removes his Belstaff, carefully draping it over her as the winter air steals some of the heat away. John loses sight of Sherlock as he climbs out of the car and disappears around the back, confused until his own door is opened.

“Move over”

John can hear the phone buzzing in Sherlock’s trouser pocket as he gestures to the vacant middle seat. The driver eyes them in the wing mirror impatiently, so John does as he’s told, eyes narrowed in question.

“You’re not doing that for the entire journey, it’s too distracting.” Sherlock explains, eyes flicking down to John’s clenched fist as he climbs in next to him and closes the door again.

The car moves off, and Sherlock resumes his typing. Except this time it’s one handed, because the other has closed over John’s dancing knuckles between them. For a few seconds it just sits there, stilling the tremor that was the source of the man’s annoyance. Then, Sherlock squeezes his fingers slightly, and moves both their hands to rest on his knee.

John is tense for a moment, breathes through his nose to temper the new feeling of this random touch. A touch neither is denying anymore, one that although unusual also feels completely normal. Feels right.

He relaxes, lets his eyes blur into the countryside outside the car window as his body leans into Sherlock’s a little. Soon the rhythmic tapping of keys settles in his mind and John finds himself drifting off into the never-ending hills and greenery. He breathes, and lets the landscape take him home.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick one about Rosie being left on her own in the hotel room for an hour or so - certainly not condoning or excusing this, I'm not a parent so simply don't have a valid opinion. The app I am imagining has movement alerts/video, I have a portable one for my puppy so assuming it would work the same! It was a plot point I had to work around as I wrote myself into a corner stupidly. Anyways, just a PSA! x


End file.
